


children and stars kiss and lose themselves

by ruinate



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM Scene, Bottom Hanzo Shimada, Breathplay, Cock & Ball Torture, Crying, Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensory Deprivation, Shibari, cock shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 15:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruinate/pseuds/ruinate
Summary: Inside the quiet space the archer called home, he offered it upwards, to the hands of the wiser being;carry my burdens,he’d asked the first time the omnic had cradled him into the world he visited.Allow me to give you sanctuary from these demons, Hanzo.





	children and stars kiss and lose themselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doctorziegler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorziegler/gifts).



> written for a friend. if you enjoy this, there’s a link to my ko-fi at the bottom; it encourages me to continue writing and every little bit helps with my mfa.

The omnic’s feet have been outfitted with talons in this newest upgrade, the former Shimada heir realises as steady  _ click-click-click  _ echoes. Well accustomed to the seiza, he does not so much as flex as metal fingers carefully settle against the top of his head, moving towards the tied up hair, knotted ribbon. “I’m going to take your ribbon off, Hanzo. After that, we can adjust your bonds if you would like.” The warning Zenyatta gives is less about permission - it is the beginning of their scene, a telltale switch in the dynamic. Outside the sanctity of this room, the fractured pieces of Hanzo’s pride were mended with gold, kintsugi in the rawest sense of the word. A human contradiction, Hanzo’s arrogance burned as bright as his self loathing, both wildfires close enough to consume. Inside the quiet space the archer called home, he offered it upwards, to the hands of the wiser being;  _ carry my burdens _ , he’d asked the first time the omnic had cradled him into the world he visited. 

_ Allow me to give you sanctuary from these demons, Hanzo. _

Nimble digits work the knot, pulling thick hair free, watching the way it falls to brush the skin of his neck. The elder tilts his head down, eyes cast downwards as he flexes his toes, fingers, one by one, finding no discomfort in the motions. Cool metal fingers slip between the places of knots, pressing upwards, in an attempt to make sure that Zenyatta’s slim fore and index fingers could fit. Further down the intricate tying, he presses his hand against Hanzo’s, whirring softly. “Push on my fingers, Hanzo.” Obediently, the elder pushes his hand back, alternating as Zenyatta does, until both hands have been tested, bonds deemed loose enough to not cut off circulation. “Most excellent. If it becomes too much, shall we just use colours this time or have you a specific word?” 

Colours had been their original plan, when Hanzo’s nerves had left him squirming under the ministrations of the monk and he’d shouted out yellow, slowing their first time to a stop. Attentively, with the monk settling a hand on his thigh, he’d murmured reassurances and slowly, permission freely given, drove Hanzo to tears - each time after, the same system had worked seamlessly, bodies fitting together like flowers growing in beds.

“Sparrow.” His brother’s childhood nickname, easy enough for him to remember, bitter favoritism left in his palate. Zenyatta pauses then, stilling all his processes and fans, leaving them in the silence, fingers tightening in his own grip; Hanzo thinks, if he had a face, the monk would have brows furrowed together, but he says nothing about it. 

“Sparrow,” Zenyatta murmurs as an afterthought, sliding his fingers down to Hanzo’s neck, resting on the pressure points there. Assessing him, feeling the steady thump of his heart. “Very well. What of your slow down signal? Your go-ahead and if you cannot speak?” The archer nods, mouth opening and closing. “Hanzo -”

The monk hated any sign of non-verbal consent, had told him that the first time they’d been together. Genji’d made the same comment, when he’d once asked to join in on his meditation. “Yes. The ones we always use - I just wish to use sparrow to stop...” He whispers in reply, skin alight with the touch of the monk. A stray bead of sweat makes its descent down the curve of his spine as the prickles of arousal spark alive. As the omnic had wrapped soft ropes over his arms, his legs, murmuring soft assurances, the beginning itches burning in his belly, stiffening him within his pants. Zenyatta’s shoulders roll, breathing, though the act is more for the preparation than the necessity. Pressing gently on the space where metal connect to flesh, waiting for the signal, the sign, to continue. Fluttering heart lurches into Hanzo’s throat at the signal that he’s ready, and he shifts, once, twice, then moves, breathing twice. 

Carefully, entire body bowing into an elegant curve as he presses his forehead against the floor, a mimicry of dogeza, unable to prostrate himself fully with the crimson ropes biting into his skin. Dry mouth moving around the words, he speaks, almost into the floor. “I have failed. I ask your forgiveness - master.” Humbled, a servant to his wills and his desires, Hanzo dares not lift his eyes from where they’re tightly shut, lest he endure more punishment.  _ Was it truly punishment? _ How often he’d asked himself the same question, giving away the burden of forgiving himself, of hating himself, of existing as a person - he came, hand open in offering, to whatever Zenyatta wished to give him, time and time again, stripped completely before him until he felt the wounds of the past being sutured and stitched.

“How have you failed me, my bright one?” A fan whirrs to life, as the chrome hand slips down his neck, to where the muscles of his shoulder bunch in tension. His thumb rubs a smooth circle into the first knot he finds, until it settles, pliant under his ministrations.

“I have - I-” The prostrated man begins, his brows furrowing as he racks his head for an excuse. Anything would do, anything would give Zenyatta enough reason to touch him, push him deep into the space where he would not feel anything other than euphoria. “I did not meditate on what we discussed last session.” 

The omnic chuckles derisively, a soft breathless thing, a tinkling of bells. It isn’t cruel, but Hanzo burns at the indignation of it all - of knowing that the master was laughing at  _ him _ . Even as he’d often come, the humiliation was never something he felt closely bonded to and Zenyatta worked to keep his boundaries in mind during these little plays. “Oh Hanzo,” The monk replies, sympathy lacing through each word, braiding his laugh with something akin to exasperation. “How am I to help you if you do not do what it is necessary? Your forgiveness is not so easily found in the recesses of your abstinence from self-care.” His cool hand slips down, further, until the soft trailing of fingertips disappears, leaving him untouched, shivering from the lack of contact. 

“Injure me.” It leaves his mouth in a rush and the sureness, the sincerity, of it leaves the archer dizzy, head spinning with the implications. “I deserve to suffer for my actions.” It is not something he has asked often, setting it under his soft limits, when he’d sat with the omnic and spoken about what he needed, wanted. A soft sigh of artificial breath behind him has him aching to look up, to remove himself from the dogeza and see the omnic’s thin frame take in the information, watch his process try to come up with viable solutions to it. Muscles tensing in anticipation until the rustle of cloth behind him and a voice right in ear has him relaxing.

“Lift your head, Hanzo.” A stern order and Hanzo, beautiful in submission, lifts his head, neck an elegant curve, waiting. His back arches against the hard hand grazing along his jaw, barely cupping underneath his chin. The soft silk of his hair tie wraps around his head, tied into a tight knot and blackness encompasses his vision. Flashes of colour spring to the corners of sight, leaving him chasing after comforting darkness. Red, green, yellow, white, like ink in water. Fingers trail down the side of his face, grazing over the plumpness of his lower lip, wiping saliva over the skin until it glistens. “Most excellent...”

Silence then. All encompassing, until the archer feels the press of carbon fibre fingers against his sternum, trailing over the swell of his breast. The sharp coolness circling his nipple, gooseflesh rising to the surface of his areola, back unconsciously arching towards the touch. It shifts lower, until the cool hand is sitting above his groin, abs flexing strenuously. “I do not anticipate that corporal punishment is a necessary tool to teach you to love yourself. Striking and injuring the flesh of someone who asks it may only serve to encourage such negative behaviors.” A hum of electronics, an omnic’s own version of comfort, sounds louder, strengthened by the sensory output. A click of a foot and then nothing. “I fear you carry some masochistic tendencies in you and that you break these rules in a way to force others to be as disappointed in you as you feel they should.” 

The archers chokes on his breath, throat tightening around the spoken words. Shame bleeds into his body, shoulders hunching forward, as he attempts to hide away from Zenyatta’s all-knowing gaze, the burn of it against his shoulders, his back tensing under the stare. Hands come to cup the man’s face, tilting his head upwards towards the light until he can see the swirls of the pattern clearer. “Does your hatred of yourself run so deep you would throw away all chance of happiness?” A breath, from the archer, as he struggles to breathe through the sudden clenching of his throat. Immediately, the gentle caress returns, rubbing thumbs over the high rise of his cheekbones. The shutter of breath leaves him, shoulders beginning to tremble. “Are you with me, Hanzo? I need a signal.”

“Green,” he murmurs, eyelashes fluttering against the silk of his ribbon. The fingers move further back, stroking his hair, careful to not catch strands in his joints. The gentle touch, electric in the sensory deprivation, has him arching, the heat pooling lower and lower in his belly.

“I have an idea that I believe would be beneficial to you, but only if you will it.” The omnic pauses then, waiting a breath. “It does not cross your hard limits; your trust in me and this relationship is more important than sexual gratification.”

“Yes.” Hanzo replies, breathless, body taut as a bowstring. The omnic’s ideas were creative, had always been. Genji had recounted tales of his master’s innovative use of pleasure and pain, had pushed Hanzo into submitting to him, despite his original reluctance. Zenyatta had never let him down prior during these escapades. “I am willing. Use me as you see fit, master.”

The same fingers that had once rubbed soothing circles into his neck, flutter down to his clothed thighs, where boxers begin to tighten with the motion, as his legs are spread further apart. “Good. Spread your legs for me, Hanzo. Let me see you.” A choked back whine as the ropes start to bite into his clothed skin, tightening further but not enough to be worrisome. “Oh, my bright one, I have done nothing more than bind you and blind you and yet…” The pressure of articulated joints against his thigh forces the archer to jerk away before a tight grip in his hair keeps him still. A bow carved out of flesh and bone. “Here, I see, your desire.”

The stretch, not unaccustomed but unprepared for, has Hanzo groaning, tendons in graceful neck bulging as his cock throbs in time with the pulse of his heart. Teasing caresses trail down and up the length of it, never enough friction to have him tensing in anticipation or even close to needing it, just enough for him to feel it. The wet stick of his boxers sticking to his skin has him shifting, stopped by hand striking deftly on his inner thighs. “Do not move. This is an exercise in teaching yourself that there is pleasure in physical pain. If you cannot treat yourself with a kind hand, then I must teach you that even cruel ones may suffice.”

The moment his hair is released, the archer tucks his face into his shoulder, seeking to hide the burn to his cheeks. If he could feel it, blood rushing to colour his cheeks, his neck, the tips of his ears, then surely the optics in the monk would pick up on it. Worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his thighs tense at the presence of a calmly stroking hand, prepared for the sudden switch in the omnic’s mood.

It does not come, a gentle hand stroking him teasingly through his boxers, his hakama. He must be red, swollen with blood, enslaved to what lie between his legs. Strokes of barely there fingertips are too little and with a sharp grunt, the archer is quick to express it, minutely canting his hips upwards. The omnic’s metallic laugh floods his ears, directly behind him as the chassis presses into his roped back. The full grip of the monk’s palm encompasses him, stroking slowly, through two layers of fabric; not enough, not enough, even as the heel digs into the space at the base. 

“You fit so well in my hand, Hanzo. This is where you belong.” An expert flick of the omnic’s mechanical wrist and Hanzo jerks against his bonds, hips arching against the pressure, mouth opening to express the pleased moan.  

“I -” The sudden gasp has Zenyatta tightening his grip just enough to hurt, tinkling laughter as the archer’s back curves even further. Vocal chords tremble around a hard hiss as his hips instinctively grind down against the omnic’s hand. The fabric shifts and moves with the sinuous motion of his hips, the stroke of a thumb against the head of his cock, smooth circles that have the man nearly panting with the exertion. Everything is so hot and even the cool feeling of metal against fevered skin does little to bring him back.   

“I don’t believe you could reach the sensors inside of me with it.” Zenyatta murmurs, resting the place of his chin against his shoulder. A whirl of fans, humid steam sticking to slick skin; hot tears sting at the corners of forcibly closed eyes and he twists his head away, fearful of dampening the ribbon acting as blindfold.

As quickly as he’d begun, the monk’s hand disappears, his body pulled away from the prostrated man. Doubling over, the archer sobs softly, so alone, untouched, blind. Humiliation burns white-hot, a pinprick, bright in his mind as his cock throbs, desperate to come. Talons click along the tatami mats for but a second, before a hand wraps around the base of his throat, forcing his head up towards the bright lights. Zenyatta does not squeeze, just holds him, as if he were a feral cat. Through clenched teeth, Hanzo sucks in a breath, the beginnings of a moan filtering, choked, out.

“Calm yourself, Hanzo.” Zenyatta murmurs, the soft timbre a balm, soothing and relaxing him further. Yet, they sit upon the precipice of a hurricane, flurry of energy, and the eye has just passed them. Without warning, the heel of Zenyatta’s foot presses sharply against his cock, drawing out a pained moan. The talons dig harshly into the fabric of his hakama, ankle joints creaking with the effort of the pressure. The thumb against the side of his neck presses in, cutting off his air - behind the ribbon, dark eyes roll back, weak to the whims of the slight monk. 

The hakama offers no protection against the onslaught of sharpness, tearing with the steady pressure of heel and talons. His thighs spread further, shifting to accommodate the omnic between his legs. A staccato breath has him groaning as pain blooms, throbbing into a burn. The obscene spread is only magnified twinfold by the slack in his jaw, the arch in his back. Pornographic as Zenyatta’s foot undulates, fans whirling with telltale satisfaction. Black creeps along the edges of his vision, as he wheezes, high pitched, around the strong grip.  

The orgasm rips through him so fast he does not realise it’s happening until he’s sobbing, hunched over the omnic’s foot. His thighs tremble, trying desperately to squeeze close around the foot pressing hard. Abdominal muscles twitch and clench around the molten core in his belly, eyes rolling back in his head. Lungs burn with the sudden rush of oxygen, head swimming; the monk is speaking, cooing soft word as his foot stays pressed down on Hanzo’s cock, even as aftershocks rack his form. 

His head floats, body loose and pliant as he moves freely back into his dogeza, moaning wanton through the shuddering tears. Time slips from him, dragged away like sand in high tide, as he floats in the sea of endorphins. At some point, the ropes binding him are loosened, pulled carefully away from reddened skin. Whining, submission shown through the duck of his head, cool fingers stroke at the rope marks, rubbing soothing circles into the muscles. “You did well, Hanzo.” Zenyatta murmurs, hands moving from the rope marks to cup the archer’s face. “You did so well. Close your eyes so I may take your blindfold off.” 

Obeying, no questions raised, the archer’s eyes flutter closed, light slowly filtering in through the thin skin. “My bright one, you took your punishment so well.” Beaten and broken, punishment perceived to be the cleansing agent to free the Shimada from his sins, Hanzo lies in the omnic’s arms, trying to catch his breath.  _ How long has he been crying? _ Trembling hands move to cup the omnic’s jawline, pressing hard thumbs against the seam of his upper and lower faceplates. Zenyatta leans into it, a spark of electricity a mimicry of a kiss. “Did you learn, Hanzo?”

Softly, nearly unheard, Hanzo croaks out, in the silence of the room. “Yes.”

_ I am cared for. _

**Author's Note:**

> haha, i really just wanted this to be done. i've been working on this for the better part of a month and a half.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/ruinatewrites) / [ko-fi](http://ko-fi.com/ruinate)


End file.
